our garden’s filled with agony and groans
please tell me, dear Ronit, what can I say?
Please tell me, dear Ronit, what can I say?
look at our land, that’s bursting through the sun
I want a smile before you take your run
this constant talk you have to run away.
You speak of peace, but I’m a peaceful man,
you call me wolf, whenever did I bark?
Not like your Zayde, who you call a shark
I give free drugs to Arabs in the land.
I long for you to thirst, but not to drown
my cherished girl who wanders without aim
a speck of sand, whose searching to be found
and desert dreams are hidden in the ground
it makes no sense to say we are the same.
It makes no sense to say we are the same
no plague upon this house, but I believe
the message of the sword that makes us grieve
we all wear masks, but sometimes there is blame.
Imah struggles, yet leaves you all alone
says soon you’ll be out fighting in the war
she keeps you busy with homework and with chores
her back is turned to melodies of moans.
Yet I cannot, her love for Arabs grows
it cannot be that boy, Mohammed’s son
still Cupid’s arrow hit, her body shows
Ronit grows thinner, I can see her bones
if it’s an Arab, then there will be blows.
If it’s an Arab, then there will be blows
Imah says, “You fool. She’s scared to go fight”
the warrior will hold the gun with might
yet inside of her heart is still a rose.
She’s always been a model for the girls
so smart in school, sews tapestries of dreams
when Chana* cries Ronit can stop her screams
a beauty, too, with gorgeous auburn curls.
I wonder if we’re viewing the same child
I see a wanderer, a restless soul
the blaze inside her eyes is something wild,
and I am Chaim, protector is my role
my temperament is anything but mild
and I must help to make my Ronit whole.
And I must help to make my Ronit whole
my wife picks dates, says what she needs is food
Ronit’s a nosher, but nothing cures this mood
I think that it is time to set a goal.
“Leave me alone,” she screams like a creature
“I’m thinking about math and of the night
when darkness comes, there is no sleep, no fight
stop with your speeches, you’re not my teacher.”
I feel the shadows over the dark hills
unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead
I must get back to work and pay the bills.
Ronit tells me she has to go to bed
and all I see is sadness, no more thrills
maybe such sweet sorrow’s in my head.
Maybe such sweet sorrow’s in my head
but not when all she dreams is of the dark
to start a brawl, make certain of my mark
there is a chance the boy and man are dead.
I won’t be deaf to pleading and excuses
a boy has taken Ronit from her home
as soon as the moon hides, Ronit she roams
not tears or prayers shall purchase our abuses.
To stop their love, before it is too late
for when he’s found, their hour is his last.
I entertain revenge for all my hate
with hopes that with this poison he’ll go fast.
She dreams him as her history, her mate
without a thought of history, our past.
Without a thought of history, our past
so much of family dead from war
aunts and uncles six feet beneath the floor
many layers of grief already cast.
Ronit has journeyed to the other side
in shadows where she whispers, all in black.
When Chana talks to her, she turns her back.
Chana seeks empty caves for tears to hide.
My little sheina beds the enemy
it does not matter that her parents bleed
however did he find the blessed key?
Inside our home, her heart, a lethal deed.
Jamil, if he’s smart, has time to flee
venom’s grown a forest from a small seed.
MOHAMMED
My son, it seems his head is in the earth
he says it’s love, but no one is in sight
the day is done, has stolen all his light
poems and music are his friends and his worth.
My wife, she cries, her boy is so bereft
he dozes on his pillow made of tears
I’m struggling with patients, so many fears
Jamil in his cocoon feels like a theft
he’s clearly in torment in day and night
indifferent to clouds as they pass by
on a camel traveling far away.
Jamil, your probing fills us with such fright
when we ask you what is wrong, you simply sigh
please tell me, dear Jamil, what can we say.
Please tell me, dear Jamil, what can I say
hunger holds our land inside its jaws
your mind does somersaults and questions laws
this constant talk, you have to run away.
There is no peace when we don’t have our land
you question everything I say and do
Ommi watches your face and she feels blue
my heart is carefully vaulted in the sand.
I try to think that no one is to blame
for Chaim is my friend, and not my foe
my son, distracted, while I stand so proud.
It makes no sense to say we are the same
my hands, swift weapons try not to come to blows
but my grief about my people, that is loud.
My grief about my people, that is loud
when they are held as captives of the land
when they have claims to every speck of sand
each craftsman and his craft, he is so proud.
I hope you do not sway to hear that side
your dreamy eyes are drawn to mountains high
as if your spirit climbs and you would sigh
when Chaim’s girl stands near, you’re on a ride.
I touch my hands in hopes that I can heal
but there’s no magic motion I can make
to bring my son back to my special view.
It’s Chaim’s girl who unearthed what my boy feels
his body bursts, politics he forsakes
his brain is shrouded; he doesn’t know what’s true.
His brain is shrouded; he doesn’t know what’s true
I’m busy treating patients and their wounds
when Jews are injured, my hands become the moon
since sickness is my sign, it’s what I do.
If Chaim were my patient, I would heal
the treachery of blood and all the rest
ignoring prayers of Allah, I am best
in eyes of dust and gloom, I touch with zeal.
Yet so much death is smoking in the street
the earth she mourns from morning until dusk
the men, they wander aimlessly around.
The grief of all my people is complete
the spirit of humanity a husk
the heavy weight of sorrow leaves no sound.
The heavy weight of sorrow leaves no sound
the patients line the halls like goats in herds
Jamil’s words sing softly, must be heard
voices of the maimed lie on the ground.
The sun at dusk becomes my enemy
with many more sick
patients in the street
they moan sour dreams like animals in heat
while Jamil, my beloved, yearns to flee.
The children and their hunger pierce my soul
they dream about butterflies to take them far away
such dreams are myths on old, abandoned trees.
Jamil, my son, he sits in sorrow’s hole
he’s so entitled to be birthed another day
lacerations, deep inside, so he’s not free.
Lacerations, deep inside, so he’s not free
the cypress trees they limp across the land
the heat grows angrier upon my hand
Ronit has captured my son in her sea.
I wonder if they think that this is love
I need to shake the earth out from his head
fear fills up my nights, I cannot shed
I’ll banish Ronit’s sunrise from above.
Embroidered in my heart is this torment
must stop this before it is too late
behind the hills of very rocky rage.
The sky has ripped the flesh, and now it’s bent
the valley of my soul is filled with hate
Jamil does not hear words from ancestors’ graves.
Jamil does not hear words from ancestors’ graves
he doesn’t see our paradise is dead
he doesn’t see betrayal in her bed.
He doesn’t feel the anguish of the waves
Jamil has journeyed to the other side
where nightmares seek refuge all in black.
When Layla* talks to him, he turns his back.
Layla seeks empty caves for tears to hide.
My only son, he beds the enemy
it does not matter that our people bleed
however did she find the blessed key?
Ronit, if she is smart, has time to flee
inside our home, his heart, a lethal deed
venom’s grown a forest from a small seed.
ACT V
Onward
We have to go.
I know.
Abba says he is ready for the kill.
Abi says that, too. He’s scary.
So is Abba. I’m not sure what he’s capable of.
Oh, I know Abi has this ugly rage inside of him.
So why are you so sad, Jamil?
You’re sad, too.
I know. My Abba, my Imah. Even though Abba is scary now.
For sure, my Abi, my Ommi. Even though Abi is scary now.
And what about my sisters?
My sister, too. We’ll be leaving everything to be together.
Don’t be so melodramatic, Jamil.
It’s the truth.
What choice do we have?
Nothing. Nothing. We have to find another place.
Where we can dance on the beach.
Where we can just hang out.
Where we don’t have to hide. I’m sick of hiding.
Me, too. How did it get this bad?
I guess they’re idiots.
Ronit, it’s not like you to talk this way. And it’s our parents you’re talking about.
Not just our parents. Our countries. The world.
Will it be better in Jaffa?
Jaffa might be for a little while, but not for long.
Why?
I spoke with my aunt, Natania. She is such a good doctor. She is the one who will give us a new look, but she says our parents might find us in Jaffa. She also said there has been tension lately. Israelis and Arabs always lived there side by side—until now. Lately some Palestinians have taken up with knives, and some Israelis have taken up with arms. Not good!
I’m scared of surgery, and scared of this fighting you are talking about.
Don’t be silly, Jamil. Hair. Makeup. Dye. And fighting, forget it. There has always been fighting!
Why is your aunt Natania willing to do this?
She knows all of this is wrong.
Then why does she stay in Israel?
It’s her country. She loves her country. It’s the only place she knows.
But she is willing to help us escape.
She loves me more.
What if your Abba is suspicious and threatens her?
He would never do that. And if he did, she would never tell. Besides, she may not know where we are. Only your uncle Faaiz will know.
Faaiz. I am worried he will get into trouble.
He agreed to get us these papers. You said he has done this before. Given people brand-new identity papers.
He has. But I hate to lie.
Forget it! Live with it! What have we been doing these past few months?
I can’t believe you just said that, Ronit.
It’s not like we have a choice.
We don’t. But I do not feel like a Jack.
You think I feel like a Rachel? It’s so weird, it makes me laugh.
But I do not feel like laughing. I keep on thinking our parents will think we are dead.
I feel dead, Jamil. I feel dead when the rockets go off.
I feel dead when children die on both sides.
I feel dead when I can’t see you!
Me, too!
Why are you so quiet now, Jamil?
What if we end up in America? Faaiz knows many people in America.
Gee, I don’t know.
It has to be better there.
You think so?
Yes. It has to be better.
Perhaps.
Why perhaps?
America has problems, too. Every place has problems.
We can hold hands.
We can touch.
No country to contain us.
No borders, no boundaries.
Faaiz will make this happen.
Natania will make this happen.
Ronit.
Jamil.
Rachel.
Jack.
A new country.
Free of distant rocks that rage on angry grounds.
Hand in hand we can walk.
You, me, kissing outside of shadows.
It will be nice, Rachel.
It will be wonderful, Jack.
One day we can reclaim our names,
but for now,
PEACE.
LOVE.
PEACE.
AFTERWORD AND
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THERE IS NO STORY MORE DEFININGLY ADOLESCENT THAN Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. It is not only a tale of two young lovers and their passion, but also one of adults whose blind intransigence serves unwittingly to destroy this love. In a world of feuding national and ideological viewpoints and territorial claims, this narrative renews itself with heartbreaking regularity and brings collective trauma to the painfully detailed, individual level again and again as a story.
So it is with Ronit & Jamil, my modern day retelling of Romeo and Juliet, which articulates a conflict between two families struggling, like all people who inhabit their land, to coexist when the convergence of their goals and claims has historically been all but impossible. This book imagines two star-crossed lovers, the Israeli, Ronit, and her Palestinian counterpart, Jamil. The voices of the teens may sound strikingly similar, a conscious decision on my part. The reinvention, coming on the 450th anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth, demonstrates again the paradox facing every generation as it emerges in its own light: finding a future in full adult awareness while rejecting the burdens of the past. But I made a conscious decision for the teens to leave the burdens of the past behind. In this way, I selected to depart from the tragic ending in Shakespeare’s play.
This book began in a village that grows daily. My visit to Israel and the occupied territories set this book in motion. My literary inspiration, however, was Elana Bell’s wonderfully evocative collection, Eyes, Stones. In “Your Village” she despairs:
Once in a village that is burning
because a village is always somewhere burning
And if you do not
look because it is not your village
it is still your village
In that village is a hollow child
You drown when he looks at you with his black, black eyes
And if you do not cry because he is not your child
he is still your child.
The idea of connections caused me to reach out to Sofie, my Israeli friend who lives in Brooklyn, and Talia and Yael Krevsky, her daughters, who provided me with invaluable research about the land, the landscape, and other relevant issues. I also interviewed a Syrian-Palestinian physician who practices in America, Lutfi Alasadi, who supplied his own perspective about the plausibility of this relationship. Sam Spitalewitz, another physician, checked my Hebrew. Lynn Dion helped me to think outside of the box, something she is very good at. Suzanne Weyn and Jacqueline Woodson have always been great critics and writers and have always supported my work. Hasanthika Sirisena, an amazing writer, critic, and friend, directed me to be a better researcher, and it is her belief in this work that allowed me to tackle the voices of the boy and the fathers. She encouraged me to start reading Arabic poetry voraciously, which I did. I also watched films: David & Fatima, The Green Prince, London River, and Only Human. The film that had the greatest impact was The Other Son, about a Palestinian and Israeli boy switched at birth, both of whom discover—quite by accident—that they belong with the other family. The sense of “otherness,” of belonging to the same tribe, but the banishment because of the political landscape, was thematically evident in so many works of art.
I was very well versed in Western poetry and, of course, Shakespeare’s work, but Hasanthika Sirisena’s reminder to read the works of Arab poets propelled me on quite a wonderful journey, where I discovered not just the poems of the familiar: Rumi; Fady Joudah; Mahmoud Darwish; Naomi Shihab Nye, but many different ones: Najwan Darwish; Adonis; Samih al-Qasim; Elmaz Abinader; Etel Adnan; Sharif S. Elmusa; Hedy Habra; Nathalie Handal; and Mohja Kahf, among others.
Thank you, RF CUNY, for the grant that enabled me to complete this book, and the university where I teach, City College, for providing me the luxury of a sabbatical to complete my work without distractions.
This book never would have reached fruition without the help, support, and generosity of two remarkable people: my agent, Myrsini Stephanides, and my editor, Ben Rosenthal, who believed in the vision of this work immediately. Myrsini’s efforts on behalf of Ronit & Jamil inspired me daily, and once she handed it over to Ben, he proceeded to edit it with both care and passion. Thank you, Myrsini and Ben.
Finally, Ira, Samantha, Craig and Amanda, Ruth, “I am mine and you are mine” forever and a day! When I first started this book, my granddaughter, Ella, was just a dream for her parents, Craig and Amanda, and now she is real. Ella, this book is for you, too. I would like to think of this book much the same way, as my dream for something that can one day happen.
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